We present this work in honor of the 175th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The laird o’ Cockpen, he’s proud an’ he’s great,
His mind is ta’en up wi’ things o’ the State;
He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep,
But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.
Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table head he thought she’d look well,
McClish’s ae daughter o’ Claversha’ Lee,
A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.
His wig was weel pouther’d and as gude as new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock’d hat,
And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?
He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,
An’ rapp’d at the yett o’ Claversha’ Lee;
‘Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,
She’s wanted to speak to the Laird o’ Cockpen’.
Mistress Jean was makin’ the elderflower wine;
‘An’ what brings the laird at sic a like time?’
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi’ red ribbons, and gaed awa’ down.
An’ when she cam’ ben, he bowed fu’ low,
An’ what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the laird when the lady said ‘Na’,
And wi’ a laigh curtsie she turned awa’.
Dumfounder’d was he, nae sigh did he gie,
He mounted his mare – he rade cannily;
An’ aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She’s daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.
And now that the laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
‘Oh, for ane I’ll get better, it’s waur I’ll get ten,
I was daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen’.
Next time that the laird and the lady was seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha’ like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there’s nae chickens appear’d at Cockpen.